


hypocrisy

by quillingyousoftly



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Brock Rumlow, Breathplay, Choking, Consensual Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Mass Murder, Murder Kink, Non-Explicit Sex, Serial Killers, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27044575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillingyousoftly/pseuds/quillingyousoftly
Summary: Jack tries to be the responsible one, but he can't deny himself the rush of taking lives. Especially when said lives inconvenience him and his boyfriend.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	hypocrisy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalika_999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



The loud music and singing from behind their bedroom wall keeping them awake is how they know an academic term has started.

Jack watches Brock turn onto his back in the dark. They don't always mind; they don't work from nine to five. They travel a lot. Jack supposes they're not present for most of the parties.

Tonight is different, though; tonight, they have just returned from a long mission. They're both sore and exhausted, but all the uproar from the neighboring apartment is making it impossible to get a wink of sleep.

Brock turns onto his side, and their eyes lock. Brock's are bagged, and Jack doesn't look much better. They have a staring contest for a while. Jack knows what Brock is asking for, he has been expecting it since they walked in their apartment that's quite unfortunately located near the campus and heard the first party this term take place. He sighs.

"Go ahead."

Brock springs out of bed like it's not his twenty-fifth hour being awake. He's fast but meticulous as he prepares. Jack enjoys watching him assemble the rifle despite the nervous energy rising in his stomach whenever it happens; enjoys watching him change into his gear, too. Brock covers himself from head to toe in black, and Jack can easily imagine him smirking as he gives him a little wave and with the rifle in hand, leaves the bedroom.

Jack stares at the darkness above him with unseeing eyes, straining his ears. The loud knocking on the door comes from the stairwell rather than their neighbors’ apartment, and Jack winces, even if they're the only other room on the floor. The less their other neighbors hear, the better.

He can easily tell when Brock's in, because the music turns up to drown out the sounds of the incoming slaughter. He hears a suppressed shot, but only because he knows to listen for it; it's well masked by the bass. A woman shrieks, and Jack recognizes her; she's been shrieking and laughing before for whatever fucking reason. Another suppressed shot, and another, more screaming that could be easily mistaken for more party sounds. Finally, the music stops. The silence that falls is deafening, and Jack's ears start to ring. 

He’s waiting for Brock with his body tense. He listens in for sirens, for footsteps coming up the stairs. Maybe somebody has called the police; maybe a neighbor has had enough of the noise and decided to cut the party short. Nothing of the sort happens, and the ongoing peace slowly calms him down.

He's half-asleep when he hears their door open, then Brock's footsteps crossing the living room to the bedroom. Brock hasn't turned on the lights, it's still wonderfully quiet, and Jack finds himself wishing he let Brock do it sooner. He turns his head when Brock walks in, still in his gear sans the balaclava, grinning from ear to ear. It's not a pleasant grin; it's too wide, with a hint of madness hiding in the corners of his mouth. He sets the rifle down on the table and climbs onto the bed, straddling Jack's hips. His mouth on Jack's is hot, his hands impatient when he worms them beneath his tank top. Jack pushes him away.

"Knock it off."

He sits up and reaches for his bedside lamp switch. He squints against the sharp yellow light as he looks down to examine the blood smeared on his white tank top.

"Oh, come on, we'll wash it," Brock says dismissively. "Since when are you such a neatfreak?"

"Since our neighbors were murdered, and you got their blood all over our things," Jack mumbles.

"Just our clothes. Fine, I'll wash them now." Brock stands up and reaches for Jack's top. "But then we fuck."

"I'm too tired, babe. Let's just go to sleep." And there is a note of regret in Jack's voice; he loves when Brock gets horny like this. It doesn't happen often, only when he—well, when he kills.

Brock purses his lips, displeased. He takes Jack's tank top and turns away. "We used to do it after missions all the time," he throws over his shoulder on his way out.

"I was still in my twenties back then," Jack reminds him, to which Brock scoffs, not without reason; he's a decade older than Jack.

It’s always been Brock initiating the post-mission sex; nothing gets him going like taking lives. It makes him feel invincible, like a master of life and death, and Jack gets it, of course he does. Their line of work attracts two kinds of people, and Jack and Brock are of the same one. That's why it was so easy to indulge Brock that one night after a mission. It happened on the quinjet; they were still bloodied, new bruises just started blooming under their skins. Brock's hair was a mess, and there was a speck of blood on his cheek, so microscopical Jack must have been the only one to notice; he looked so goddamn hot that night, Jack didn't say no when Brock shoved his hand down his pants.

He isn’t sure what it was, but he must have done _something_ right, because Brock kept coming back until he stayed for good.

Missions are one thing, though. They have clean-up crews on those. They're protected by the government. Any unassigned deaths are written off as collateral damage. Sure, they're always a problem, but not a serious one, not really. 

Murder in their time off work is much more complicated.

"Did you pick up all the shells?" Jack asks when Brock comes back, fully naked with his dick half-hard because he's a little shit like that.

"Mmmh." Brock bends over for his sweatpants he has discarded on the floor, but Jack’s too anxious to appreciate the sight. 

"And you dug out _all_ the bullets?" Jack continues. "You counted them?"

"Who's the commander, you or I?" Brock straightens up, pulls his sweatpants on, and gets into bed, his back to Jack. "Turn off the light, would ya?"

Jack obeys with a small sigh. He can't help the anxiety keeping his stomach in knots. He can't help worrying about Brock. Losing him is the worst scenario he can think of; if he ever does, he doesn't think he could live with himself—

Brock sighs. "I can hear you think."

He keeps his voice soft, letting Jack know he's not really angry, and Jack takes it as an invitation to wrap his arm around Brock's waist and press himself flush against his back.

"I'm nervous," Jack admits the real reason for his refusal. 

"It feels like you don't trust me anymore," Brock says, dejected.

"I trust you completely."

"Then act like it."

"Brock, we both know that sometimes you get carried away," Jack says and waits for Brock's reply with his breath held.

Brock stays silent for a moment, and Jack expects him to shake his embrace off, but finally he only says, "Not in situations like this. Jack, I woulda _never_ put you in any danger. No matter how excited I am. Clear?"

Jack lets his breath out in relief. "Yes, sir."

Brock slaps his hand. "Don't call me that unless you can perform tonight."

Jack smiles, but he regretfully admits, "I can't. Sorry."

"Apology accepted. But don't expect me to still be in the mood tomorrow."

Smiling and holding onto each other, they fall asleep surrounded by peaceful silence.

*

The hardest part is pretending to be shocked when the police come knocking on their door. 

Brock has his reactions down pat. Worry when he sees the police at his door; shock and terror when they inform him about the slaughter that took place just next door last night. He looks at Jack over his shoulder with that familiar shine in his eyes, like he's about to start crying as he asks, "Can you believe it? Such good kids."

Jack doesn't act shocked. He's by Brock's side in seconds, hand on his shoulder, genuine concern on his face. It's easy to be concerned when his killer boyfriend is being questioned by the police, even if they don't know that yet. It's easy to be scared for them both.

"We didn't hear anything," Brock says. "I mean, we did hear the party. It would be hard not to, it was very loud. I think I fell asleep at some point, did you?" he asks Jack.

Jack nods. "I learned to sleep through any noise, you know that, hon." It's something about falling into the role that makes him call Brock pet names he doesn't normally use. Like they're not the real Jack and Brock. "Please, tell me, officers... Is it safe? Should we move?"

The couple of detectives exchange glances. As far as they know, it's not safe, but they're potential witnesses or maybe even suspects. They don't want to lose track of them.

"The area will be patrolled," the woman says at last. "You have no reason to make any rash decisions about moving just yet."

Jack raises his eyebrow. "Except for the mass murder next door."

Brock rests his hand on Jack's elbow. "They're right, Jackie. We shouldn't make any rash decisions."

"Brock, that could have been us!"

"It seems that the killer was lured by the noise," the man says. "So maybe... Keep quiet?"

Even his partner gives him an incredulous look before thanking them for their time. Brock closes the door behind them.

"We're lucky they put an idiot on that case," Jack whispers, making sure only Brock can hear him.

They don't see the detectives again.

*

How easily people forget.

They have enjoyed peace for a longer while. No one wants to party after a mass murder of partying college students in their building. Their neighbors have kept to themselves and locked the doors after dark.

But then they’ve grown restless. Bored. Finally, even though the apartment remains empty, and the door is still barricaded with the police tape, they forget.

Laughing and singing to loud music comes from the apartment below them this time. They lie in bed sleeplessly, Jack's eye watching the minutes pass. It's past one, and they need to be up at six. It's hard to tell when the party will end.

They've tried to tire themselves out with sex, but it didn't work. Jack isn't even looking at Brock, but he can feel his restless energy growing. Finally, he feels a tap on his chest.

"Jack—"

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Jack mutters, still staring at the clock. 01:28. 01:29.

“You know what’s not a good idea? Not sleeping before a mission. I swear to God, Jack, if we get one tomorrow and we get sloppy because of some idiots partying at night—”

“Now they’re thinking it could be a random maniac,” Jack interrupts, his voice raised in his frustration. “But twice in the same building? They’ll narrow it down to the occupants.”

“So what? I always leave the sites _pristine_. They’ll have nothing on us.” The covers rustle. “I’m going.”

"I'll go." Jack sits up before Brock untangles himself from the covers. Truth be told, he's been ready since his afterglow faded. It's not that he doesn't trust Brock, he tells himself, he'll just feel calmer if it's him making sure he's leaving the crime site spotless.

He’ll feel calmer knowing that if something goes wrong, it’ll be him taking the fall.

He switches on the lamp and climbs out of bed. He can feel Brock's dark eyes on him as he takes the garment bag with his gear out of his closet and puts it on carefully but swiftly. He assembles the rifle next, then pulls on the balaclava as a finishing touch.

"Wait." Brock's by his side already, handing him a Ghostface mask with a cheeky grin. “It’s Halloween.”

Jack lets him put it on and make sure his hair is properly covered. 

"Looking good." Brock slaps his ass. "You should wear it to bed one of these nights."

Jack isn't sure how to reply to that. He doesn't want to think about fucking Brock in a Ghostface mask when he's about to slaughter a handful of people.

He leaves home and sneaks down the stairs. There are only two apartments on each floor, and as he’s knocking on his targets’ door, he eyes the other one warily. Having listened to the party for the last four hours, Jack has counted six people—three couples. The job should be easy.

The door opens, and Jack immediately barges inside, the suppressor pressed against a person's chest—BLAM—the bullet shoots through, and Jack tracks its trajectory and files its location away to pick it up later. Time is of essence on a mass murder outside of work, he can't waste it on searching for bullets. The thud of the body falling to the floor is drowned out by techno music. The rest of the students haven't yet realized there's a murderer in the house.

Jack sneaks over to the open living room door and peeks inside. Two couples dance—or rather, make uncoordinated jerky movements—in the center, making themselves more difficult targets. Jack watches the one that isn't headbanging like he's on a Slayer's concert instead of a shitty college party through his sights, but doesn't take a shot until he's absolutely sure he won't miss; he might not be aiming at terrorists this time, but there's still too many of them for any slip-ups.

Any slip-ups could put Brock in danger.

His dance partner stops pretending she’s having a seizure when she notices something is wrong, but she runs out of time before it dawns on her. The other couple stops dancing when they realize their friends dropped to the ground. They bend over, trying to examine them; Jack sees when the girl takes in a breath to release a shriek, but that's when a bullet pierces her throat. He can't track the bullet this time, because he needs to shoot her boyfriend before his drunk body goes into a fight-or-flight.

Jack lowers his rifle, scanning the room. Five down. He has estimated six.

He whirls around when he realizes he has left the front door open. The girl who's been inching towards it behind his back screams and takes off running. It's Jack's training that doesn't let him panic. He grabs her hair before she reaches the door; her yelp ends in a choked up sound as he jerks her back towards himself. He kicks the door closed and tugs her head up by a fistful of hair. She looks up at him with wide, scared eyes, her body trembling. She's too close to shoot her with a rifle.

Jack doesn't mind the clean jobs, and outside of work, they all have to be clean if he doesn't have a deathwish—because he's sure SHIELD would never let him be arrested, they'd do worse, and Brock would end up entangled in it, too.

He doesn't mind them, but he doesn't particularly like them either. Shooting people from a distance is about as exciting as pushing papers. He could never understand what Brock likes about it so much.

No, Jack likes to get all close and personal. Physical. Likes to feel his targets’ heartbeats beneath his fingertips. Likes to feel their bodies go limp. Likes the rush holding somebody's life in his hands gives him.

He closes his gloved hand on her thin throat. She chokes out a sob, and tears stream down her cheeks. She kicks out and claws at his hand, but Jack's hold is strong and steady. 

Strangling might be his favorite way of killing. First of all, it lasts long. Second, he doesn't even need a weapon for it. Third, it's as close and physical as it can get. He feels her panicked pulse in her arteries, the spasms of her muscles with every failed attempt to take a breath. He watches her run out of strength as her kicks become jerkier and fewer. Her tears wet his glove, the strands of her soft curly hair stay between his fingers as she tries to yank her head away. She throws out her hand, trying to hit him in the face, shove him off, but she's too weak. Finally, her eyes roll back, and her body slumps weightlessly in his hands. He can't feel the pulse anymore, but he snaps her neck anyway, just to be sure, then drops her.

That's one less bullet to pick up.

He sweeps the apartment swiftly in case he has miscalculated, but doesn't find any more people. He switches off the music, and the peaceful silence makes him sigh in relief. 

He picks up all the shells and bullets, needs to dig three out of the bodies with a knife. His gloves soak in so much blood, he might need to burn them, but he doesn't take them off until he's back on the stairwell. He takes off his boots, too; of course, he made sure not to step in any blood, but he can never be too careful. With the rifle in one hand and boots in the other, he sneaks upstairs back home, where Brock's already waiting for him.

"What are you doing out of bed?" Jack asks casually, like he didn't just murder six people. He hands him his rifle and walks to the bathroom where he drops the boots in the bathtub. He takes off his mask and throws it inside an awaiting metal bucket; next are the gloves and the balaclava, and Brock joins him as he's unzipping the jumpsuit.

" _That's_ why I'm outta bed," he says, stopping Jack's hands with his own. "You always gotta clean yourself up right away."

"Of course I do, I can't smear the blood of my victims all over our home."

Brock rolls his eyes. "We're in a bathroom. It'll be easy to clean if you stain it a little." He cups Jack's cheek. "We're safe here."

The tension seeps away from Jack's shoulders and he sighs, leaning into Brock's touch. Brock grins in approval.

"Did you shoot them all?" he asks in that smoky voice of his, and there’s something dark and _hot_ hiding in his eyes.

Jack's spine tingles pleasantly when he shakes his head, the fresh memories of a frail body dying in his hands flashing before his eyes.

"What else did you do?"

Jack grabs Brock's neck and slams his back against the wall. It's a tight fit between the tub and the sink, and Brock accidentally knocks their shaving cream off the shelf, but they pay it no mind. Their eyes bore into each other as Jack's hand closes tighter around Brock's throat. Brock remains amazingly relaxed even as he's running out of air, and his heartbeat’s tuning in to Jack’s own quickened one. Brock knows Jack only needs a couple of minutes to kill him, and yet he lets him hold his life in his hands and trusts him a hundred percent with it. If someone ever asked Jack what love was, he'd say, _that_. That's true love. 

He loosens his hold, and as Brock sucks in a much needed breath, he kisses him. Brock responds eagerly, pressing his body, all hard muscles and hot skin, against Jack's stained jumpsuit, his thigh ending up against Jack's erect cock.

"So you had fun?" he rasps against Jack's mouth. Jack hums in confirmation. "What else did you do?"

"Just that."

"Only that? You sure?"

Jack swallows thickly. "I snapped her neck."

"Oh yeah? How did it sound?"

Jack meets Brock's dark eyes boring into him. A sharp smirk graces his lips, and Jack’s eyes follow the tip of his pink tongue wetting them. Brock’s fast heartbeat beneath his fingers intoxicates him, so does the mild smell of blood.

"Good. It sounded—good."

"Do you wanna snap my neck, Jack?"

Jack shakes his head. As much as he likes to watch the light in his victims' eyes go out, he wants Brock's eyes to darken only with desire, never death. He hadn’t felt like this about another person before; never loved anybody like this.

"I wanna hold it as I fuck you."

"What are ya waiting for, then?"

Brock finally lets him lose the jumpsuit that Jack immediately throws inside the washing machine. Brock's bare chest is already stained with blood, and Jack knows he's smearing it all over the tiled wall when he presses him against it, but at the moment, he doesn't care. He keeps his hand loose around Brock's throat as he eases himself in, at least until Brock asks him otherwise. It's the knowledge that Brock will let him choke him that gets him going, not the choking in and of itself. Brock would probably let him kill him if that was what Jack really wanted. He never will want it, but he wonders about Brock sometimes. Wonders if he'd let Brock do the same. Maybe. He definitely wouldn't let him shoot him; he'd want him to get physical, so he could feel how much he was enjoying himself.

"How'd you kill me?" Jack asks against Brock's ear between moans filling the bathroom.

"I'd stab you," Brock responds without a second thought. "You'd like that?"

"Maybe." Maybe he would, if the way his hips buck against Brock's are any indication. 

"Damn right you would." Brock clutches Jack's hand holding his neck. "There's something erotic about stabbing, isn't there? Harder."

There is, and Jack's unsure if it's that realization or Brock's order that makes him squeeze his throat and go harder on him. Brock lets out a low whine, and it doesn't take him long after that to add his cum to the blood on the wall. Brock's tight muscles twitching around Jack send him over the edge.

"Where?" he breathes as he slumps against Brock’s sweaty body. He lets go of his throat and finds his hand on the wall to lace their fingers together.

Brock laughs weakly. "You want round three or what?"

"Maybe," Jack admits. 

Brock shoots him an amused—but also tired, so tired—look over his shoulder. "It's been a while since you got your hands truly dirty, huh, Mr Clean?"

"Just trying to keep us safe."

Just like that, the mood shifts, and Brock elbows him off of him. "We _are_ safe."

Jack watches him wash his body at the sink. He knows they are. Brock's never given him a reason to distrust him, to worry. But he just can't help it.

Brock leaves him to deal with his gear and the stains on the wall.

*

They hear sirens soon after Jack joins Brock on the bed; the police lights cut through the night, painting their bare bodies blue and red. It's certain they won't get any sleep tonight.

"We should move," Jack mutters, and Brock turns his head sideways to look at him. "We could get a house out of town. It'd be quiet."

"How romantic," Brock comments. He doesn't sound sarcastic or approving; just tired.

"Two mass murders in the same building weeks apart from each other, in a close proximity to our apartment—a third one is gonna look fucking suspicious, Brock."

Because they both know there'll be a third one if they stay.

Brock nods. "But I'm choosing the place."

Jack grins. "Sure. Anything for you."

Brock rolls his eyes, turning away. "You're such a sap, Jack."

"A sap that could kill you."

"Could, but won't. Doesn't even want to. That's like, the most sappy thing ever."

"Do _you_ want to kill me?"

Brock's silent for a while, and Jack's about to poke him in the ribs when he finally admits, "No."

"Then you're as sappy as me."

Brock slaps his chest. "Yeah, maybe, so? Shut up."

Jack grabs his hand and pulls him close to his chest. "How about that round three?" he purrs.

He can tell Brock wants to roll his eyes again, but can't quite bring himself to. He's clearly interested, his eyes and fingers tracing the hard lines of Jack’s muscles. "They're gonna knock on our door any minute now," he reminds Jack. "Ask us if we heard anything suspicious."

Jack grabs the back of his thighs, hooks one leg around his hips. "Then let's give them something truthful to listen to for once."

**Author's Note:**

> So, the academic year has started recently… Guess how I realized.
> 
> Anyway, I really, really hope you'll like this one and that I didn't accidentally touch on any dnw 🙈 Happy Halloween!


End file.
